Seasons of Love
by SnowboundMermaid
Summary: Snapshots of the minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years and decades of Barney and Robin's marriage.
1. Once Upon a Time

Robin Scherbatsky is filling out a marriage license. That alone is surreal enough, but the second she lifts pen from paper, she blinks at her own handwriting. "Huh."

The sound, little more than a breath, catches Barney's attention. He cranes his neck to see what she's written. "Are you sure? You don't have to do this if you don't want to. I'm not asking. I would never ask you to do anything like that."

"Asked me to marry you," she says, and rolls her eyes because it's not only ridiculous that she should be here, with this particular document in front of her, but with this particular man filling out his half of it. Not only that, but how good it feels, how right. Natural. She double checks her information. Last name after marriage: Scherbatsky-Stinson. She hadn't meant, consciously, to add his name to her own, but there it is. It looks right. Also kind of fancy; she likes that. It can stay. "This one was my idea. Really."

He takes a moment to process that, squints at the form as though that will let him see through any ulterior motive she might have. His eyes crinkle in concentration , long enough to give her pause. "Okay, then. Give me the pen. I missed something."

She hands it over. His shoulders block her view of the paper as he fills in another blank with smooth, deft strokes. He steps back, puts the pen down. Last name after marriage: Scherbatsky-Stinson. "Are _you_ sure about _that_?" She knows, then -truth be told, she always knew, from the time she came out of her old bedroom in a crappy Brooklyn apartment with her battered game of Battleship, to find him half naked in her living room - that he will never stop surprising her. The name looks fancy for him, too. That, she definitely likes. They can be fancy together.

"Yes," is all he says, and leans in to plant a kiss -a good one, not some formal City Hall variety, just for show- on her mouth as his final public word on the subject. "I thought about it," he whispers for her alone. "It sounds good."


	2. Minutes

Robin Scherbatsky-Stinson has been married for precisely seventeen minutes and forty-five seconds, not that anybody is counting. She and her husband -her _husband_ \- are breathless and giddy, hiding in a church supply closet, muffling their laughter with ardent marital kisses. Marital kisses, she has decided, are much, much better than the other kinds. Only kind she wants from now on, as a matter of fact. Voices of friends and family members pass outside the door. There's no need to differentiate whether said family members are hers or his, because there are no longer any such designations. No more his, no more hers, only _theirs_ , united in the search for the errant newlyweds.

That's them. They're married now. Married. She'd had no idea how hot that was going to be until it actually happened. They're going to be in trouble, taking off like this. That much is clear. This wasn't in the plan. What they were supposed to do, what Lily had informed them in no uncertain terms that they were going to do, or else, was wait outside the sanctuary, thank everybody, one by one, for coming to share their special day with them, then the next round of pictures, then the reception. That was the plan, but Barney had looked at her, lifted one eyebrow, tilted his head, and the next thing she knew, they were running. Down the hall, around the corner, up a flight of stairs. He'd tried two different doors before this one opened, and here they were, her arms looped around his neck, his arms about her waist, mouths melded, the scents of chalk and disinfectant stronger than her bouquet or his cologne.

Barney's fingers fumble with the closure on the back of her gown. He curses under his breath. "This has to be the most un-bangable wedding dress of all time." He tugs at the straight skirt where it hugs Robin's hips. It doesn't budge.

"Like you have experience with wedding dresses."

"Bridesmaids," he offers, in a voice that's half confidence, half indignant whine. "That's almost the same thing." The skirt really isn't moving. He leans back against a metal shelf with a sigh. "This isn't fair. We're married. We are legally and morally allowed, nay, commanded, to bang whenever and wherever we choose, and we're foiled by a dress." He spits out the last word like it tastes bad. "How many buttons does this thing have?"

She slides her hands down his chest and rolls his lapels between her fingers. "Eighteen." His heart beats beneath her touch. She's as eager as he is for their first time as husband and wife. It wouldn't take long. "Plan B. You get me out of the entire dress and hang it from one of those hooks behind you. We consummate the crap out of this marriage. You get me back into the dress. We rejoin our loved ones and make sure our reception makes Marshall and Lily's reception look like your grandma's Tupperware party. Think you can do that?"

He turns her around, fingers already on the first of eighteen buttons. "Challenge accepted."


	3. Hours

Robin Scherbatsky-Stinson has been married for five hours and twenty three minutes. She leans back, her head against Barney's chest, his fingers in her hair. She's lost count of the number of bobby pins he's plucked out of what had been a killer updo for most of the day. She's over it now. She is not over him, down to dress shirt and maple leaf printed boxers, his back propped against the headboard of the bed in their honeymoon suite. She has never been more exhausted in her life, but sleep is the farthest thing from her mind. This day is only going to happen once; she wants to make it last as long as she can.

"Done." Barney ruffles both hands through her hair to prove his point, and drops the final bobby pin atop the pile of its fallen comrades. A moment later, his entire body vibrates with laughter. "Oh my God, you have to see this. You have to." He unfolds his long, lean frame from the bed, and leads her to the full length mirror. "Theophilius has been avenged."

They'd agreed, ahead of time, that there would be no smashing of cake in each other's faces. He'd been a perfect gentleman, offered a bite sized tidbit on the tip of a fork. She'd intended to follow suit -no pun intended, and no offense to Theophilius, who admirably discharged his duties as an aweome wedding suit- but then the moment was there, and Barney looked so completely innocent and angelic, downright beaming with complete happiness, that she couldn't resist. Distract with perfectly respectable forkful -frosting rose, as requested, because those are the best part- and then heave rest of plate toward new spouse, maximum frosting distribution the only goal. Drag in swift yet careful downward motion until plate drops or spouse moves. Face, hair, shirt, tie and jacket all utterly annihilated in a matter of seconds; the Scherbatsky-Stinson cake smash technique, patent pending. Counter threats of immediate annullment with mention that custom made bridal lingerie is only for the viewing of the actual bridgegroom, from which annulment would disqualify person making such threat. For added touch of class, ensure the requested frosting rose survives intact, for consumption of spouse after he changes to clean suit, shirt and tie.

She regrets nothing. Not the massive smooch he planted on her in return immediately afterward. Not the picture of the collateral damage to her hair and makeup or the mysterious distribution of said picture on social media. Not the fifteen minute bridal refurbishment session that followed, Lily blocking the bathroom door, Patrice weilding wipes and makeup brushes, while Ted escorted Barney to and from the room where he could change suits. All right, maybe she regrets that they didn't get a chance to repeat the supply room incident, but they're married now. There will be a lifetime of other chances.

She sees his reflection before she sees her own. His face is creased with utter delight, his eyes bright, and it's enough to let her see what he sees. It is funny; she has to admit that. Her hair is everywhere, sticking out at odd angles in some places, stiff with product, bunched or hanging down limp in others, at odds with the sensual elegance of her lacy white bustier and camera-ready makeup. "If you take a picture of this, I will kill you." Hard to sound threatening, with a snort-laugh in the middle of said threat, so she doesn't even try. She sticks out her tongue, to see if she can make his smile even wider, eyes brighter, laugh louder. She can. The result shakes her. Every line on his face goes deeper and more defined. He's laughing so hard now that he's producing actual tears. It's like seeing little-boy-him and old-man-him at the same time, a rare privilege. Right-now-him presses his mouth to her neck. Late-evening whiskers abrade her skin. She has her second wind. "Shower. Now."

"Want company?"

"Yes." She grabs him by the hand and leads him to the bathroom.


	4. Days

Robin Scherbatsky-Stinson has been married for two days, nine hours and forty-seven minutes. She is perched on the edge of the couch in their suite in Belize, peering over the top of the Spanish language newspaper that she is totally not reading. She doesn't read enough Spanish to follow the text of the articles, but the paper came with the breakfast tray and she needs some excuse to steal furtive looks out the sliding glass doors that lead to the balcony.

Barney stands on the other side of the door, arms crossed over his rumpled bathrobe, white terrycloth with the insignia of the hotel embroidered on the pockets. He has the collar turned up to protect the back of his neck. His skin is darker against the pure white of the robe. A sunburst of brilliant magenta blossoms at the base of his throat. She's not sure, but she thinks his hair may be lighter already. The sun climbs in the sky. She can read numerals and pick out the icons that are universal to weather reports, even if she can't decipher any of the words. Zero chance of rain, with not a cloud in the sky. Unless she's reading things wrong, this day is going to be a hot one. She can't leave him out there forever, but she's still angry. She snaps the paper and turns the page. By the pictures, the local sporting team seems to have had a very good outcome for yesterday's game.

A series of rapid taps sounds on the glass. She looks up from the paper.  
 _  
Can I come in now_? He holds the question, scrawled in black ballpoint on a pad of hotel stationery, and punctuated with a drawing of a wide eyed puppy, its hind legs crossed, front paws clasped in prayerful entreaty, up to the window for her inspection. She's seen the puppy on previous notes, tired, cold, hungry, thirsty, bored, and one other state she has already decided she will describe as "lonely" when she recounts this incident. If she recounts this incident to another living soul. If either of them survives this honeymoon. She's had her doubts.

She throws the paper down, grabs her own pad and ballpoint and writes her answer. _After you admit what you did._

Barney mimes an overly dramatic sigh. _Don't make me write it. The maid can read English_.

You don't know that.

She's studying English literature at the University of Belize. Third in her class.

Of course Barney would know the maid's college major and class standing. He can talk to the maid he'd known for a matter of minutes, get her to spill her entire life story, but he won't explain himself to his own wife? He owes her that much. This is their honeymoon. They have one shot to build the foundation of their marriage before they head back to New York and everyday life. If they can't agree on the most basic of issues in a four star hotel in a tropical paradise, how can they expect to make things work when everything isn't taken care of for them at their slightest whim? She taps the pen against the pad. _That doesn't solve anything._

 _Neither does this. We're running out of paper._ He flaps the final page of the pad and reveals the cardboard backing beneath. The page falls back down. _Are you going to put me out on the balcony every time we have a fight? We're married._ He underlines _married_. Twice.

Dammit, he's right. She throws down paper and pen and crosses to the door. She thumbs the lock. The door slides open. "Go."

Barney rushes past her, straight to the bathroom. He's back before she can even form the words she wants to say to him. "So, first married fight, huh?"

"Looks like." Robin pushes her hair out of her face with both hands. She offers a tremulous smile.

"Is it over?"

She drops onto the couch cushions. She's too tired to yell at him, especially when he's standing there, barefoot and bathrobe-clad, sunburned and contrite, his longing glance directed at the breakfast tray. Her stomach rumbles. "That depends. Promise you won't do that again?"

He takes one cautious step toward her. "I can promise that next time, I will try to see your side of the situation. I do not want you to be cold or sticky. For the times I fail at that, maybe a nice all weather chaise on the balcony?"

"Also a space heater." She removes the lid from the closest covered dish, an assortment of sliced fruits. "Gets cold out there in winter." He's Barney, and she's her. This is going to happen again. She can live with that. She pats the cushion next to her. "Sit."

There's only a split second of hesitation before he complies with her request. He plucks a chunk of pineapple from the plate and raises it halfway to his mouth, then stops and offers it to her instead. Her lips brush the tips of his fingers. The pad of his thumb brushes a dribble of juice from her chin.

She offers him a strawberry. He nips her fingertips. She lets the red juice of the berry dribble down his chin, onto the white of the robe. She waits for his reaction.

He follows her line of sight, touches first a finger to the stain, then tears open a wipe from the breakfast tray and dabs at it. Some of the red transfers to the wipe. "You did that on purpose."

"Now we're even."

He scrubs the wipe over the stain that is now only spreading. "That is not even close to the same thing." He shucks out of the robe and tosses it to the floor, the seriousness of his expression, brow furrowed, mouth a straight slash, at odds with the fact that he is completely naked. "All right, both incidents involve damage done to hotel linen." He drops back onto the couch, comfortable in or oblivious to his nudity. Probably both. She's going to have to leave housekeeping a big enough tip to keep their maid in textbooks for the rest of the semester. "Dibs on the grapes."

"You're an idiot."


	5. Weeks

Robin Scherbatsky-Stinson has been married for two weeks, two days, twenty-three hours, and twenty-eight minutes, give or take a few. There's been a lot going on, okay? Some things are going to slip through the cracks. Like the fact that she has forgotten her own name, on live television.

"For WWN, this is Robin Scherbatsky." That should be the signal for the camera to cut to the sponsor, but it doesn't. It remains on her, and that's when it hits. She's not done. The additional ring on the fourth finger of her left hand has stopped feeling like a thing _on_ her and become part _of_ her, like her engagement ring already had, months before. The name will be, too, someday, when she isn't looking. It will sneak up on her, and she won't be able to remember calling herself anything else. For now, she is looking, at the monitor with her name -her new one- in clear block letters.

She bites her lower lip to keep from spewing out a word she's not allowed to say without being on seven second delay. This isn't Metro News One anymore. For one anxious second, she wishes it were. Nobody would be watching that. Everybody was watching this. She squares her shoulders. Screw it. She's a professional. Only thing to do here is steer into the skid. She looks straight into the camera and holds up her left hand for its inspection. "Stinson," she adds, with her brightest broadcast smile. It's a wrap.

First day back on the job, and she caps it off by forgetting her own name. Great. Patrice assures her it happens to everybody who changes their name when they get married. Patrice's own sister-in-law -how many of those does Patrice have, anyway? Robin has lost count - once something something refrigerator delivery something something, mother in law's address, something something, closed the door, whatever. Robin can't hear the exact words over the blood rushing in her ears and the pounding of her own heart.

Patrice doesn't get it, can't get it. She's never had this happen to her. Never saw that look in the eyes of the man she loves -because if she had, she'd have had to tell Robin _all_ about it- when she chose to add his name to her own. He didn't ask. He would never ask, and she loves him for it. She wrote it down that way because it was so right, she didn't even have to think about it. Now, she's thinking about it. She laughs when Patrice does, though she's lost all track of the story, and leaves her mic in Patrice's hand. She can't be here. Her heels click on the tiled floor, Patrice's voice only a buzz now.

Robin turns left instead of right, because right will take her to her dressing room, and she can't go there yet. Barney is there, with champagne and chocolates and a monitor with a next-best-thing-to-being-there feed of the live broadcast. Robin Scherbatsky-Stinson's first broadcast, and she forgot her own name. His name. Their name. He'd probably think it meant she wanted to forget them or at least him, and she didn't. She doesn't. They're in this together, until death do them part. They both said it, right in front of God and the State of New York and everybody. Thinking hurts too much. She kicks one leg back, removes her pump and hurls it down the corridor. "Dammit!"

"Hey, watch the aim."

Her stomach lurches at the sound of Barney's voice, the muffled thunk of her shoe as it bounces off him and onto the floor. "Are you okay?"

Already, a suspiciously shoe-shaped red patch mars one cheek. He holds the offending shoe in one hand, like Cinderella's prince, only scowling, and in a much better suit. Barney always has a much better suit. "If I give you this back, are you going to throw it at me again?"

She puts her hand out for the shoe. "I didn't throw it at you."

"Oookay." He fakes her out once, holds the shoe over her hand and draws it back before he finally releases his hold. "Patrice said you were upset about the name thing. I figured you were mad at me."

She kicks her leg back and slips the shoe back on. Tests the heel. Not broken. Good. "I'm not mad at you."

"It's okay. There's no pressure, at least not from me. You don't have to use Stinson."

"I want to."

He rubs the red patch and shifts his jaw. "I mean on air. Go on back there and tell whatever producer takes care of those things you're still signing off as Scherbatsky, and we can get on with the celebrating." He gestures back down the corridor.

"I mean on air, too. Scherbatsky-Stinson is the name I want to use, in everything. I'm not changing it back. It's just," her breath ruffles the hair around her face. "I've always signed off with the same name for my entire career and now it's different, even though it's a good different. Think there's some kind of grace period for things like this?"

Barney glances back over his shoulder. "Eh, the delivery guy hung around until Patrice's sister in law remembered her name, so probably. Besides, I cannot in good conscience fault you when I did the same thing." Both sides of his face are flushed; embarrasment, not the impact from her shoe. "Not exactly the same thing, because I wasn't on national TV. I was, however, in front of the board of directors. Some of whom have extremely old fashioned ideas about who should change their name to what, and do not take it well when when said ideas are challenged."

There's a story there, she can tell. "I take it you were the one who challenged them."

His chest broadens. "I was. I told them Scherbatsky is an awesome name, and I am proud to honor the two women I most admire on the planet, my wife, and my mother, by using both their names. Then I segued back to the business at hand by pointing out how GNB needs to consider both the past and the present, in order to succeed in the future. Nailed it." His little-boy grin held nothing back, a sure sign he'd had the same board members who criticized him eating out of his hand by the time he was done.

"Wish I could have seen that."

He withdraws his phone from his jacket pocket. "You can. Whole meeting was recorded for legal butt covering purposes. Rest of the meeting is super boring, though. "

"I'm not watching the rest of the meeting. Only the good parts, and not on your phone. Can you send it to the giant screen in the bedroom?"

"Mrs. Scherbatsky-Stinson, I like the way you think. " He slips the phone back in his pocket and offers his arm. "Is Mrs. okay, or is it still Ms?"

She threads her arm through his and they fall into step. "Either way. As long as I've got Mr. Scherbatsky-Stinson, I'm good."


	6. Months

Robin Scherbatsky-Stinson has been married for six months, two weeks and two days when the phone rings from its glass on her hotel nightstand. She's too tired to check the hours and minutes, or do the math with the time distance between New York and Amsterdam. She'd gone to bed sometime after eleven, her mind spinning with reams of notes on the relevance of Zwarte Piet in modern Dutch culture, protocol for the press conference with King Willem-Alexander, and the list of chocolate letters she has been warned she's not allowed back in the US without. She opens one eye enough to see the caller ID. Barney. She smiles in the dark and retrieves the phone. "Hey."

"Hey." His voice warms her blood, bridges the miles and borders between them. "Did I wake you?"

She pulls the overstuffed pillow next to her under her arm and snuggles into it. "Mmhm. What's up?"

"Before I say anything else, I have one question. Are you sitting down?"

"It's after midnight. I'm lying down."

The clatter of hangers sliding along a rod is almost enough to make her feel like she's home. He's in the suit room. Her mouth spreads in a slow smile as the picture forms in her head. If it's around midnight for her, it's around six PM for him. He's off work, and on his way to meet Ted and Tracy for dinner. The zipper of a garment bag sounds twice, down and up again, followed by Barney's muffled curse, then, "You're already in bed? Sweet. You may want both hands free because, get this, I tore my shirt. Whole sleeve came right off at the shoulder. Incredible Hulk style, only not green and more awesome."

Robin stretches her legs beneath the covers and tightens her grip on the pillow. She bites her lip to keep back the murmur of approval that rises in her throat, and adjusts the image in her head. It's not that his slimmer physique of the last year or so doesn't appeal to her, but the cause of it -wedding stress, all the secrecy of the AltruCell bust, the GNB restructuring- had taken their toll. He'd been eating less, his stomach a constant knot. Gym time fell by the wayside when court came into the picture. Evenings at home helped, along with Sunday dinners at Loretta's. Gym dates with James, and a new trainer -a former Mountie, to her delight and his chagrin- worked off a chunk of the anxiety, Greg Fisher's guilty plea on the first day of the trial evened out everything else. She'd seen her Barney come back, bit by bit. "I take it this means the gun show is back in town?"

"It is indeed. The trim fit shirts had been feeling snug around the shoulders lately, but I didn't think I was there yet. Then the fabric tore, dangling threads, the whole deal. You should have been here. Totally worth all those gross protein shakes James insisted I try. Anyway, I was looking for the Robert Talbott button down in melon stripe, regular fit, and I can't find it."

Robin gulps and tightens her grip on the pillow, and the shirt buttoned over it. Barnpillow has seen her through four nights in Amsterdam, the longest she and Barney have been apart since the wedding. They still have three to go. "Can't you wear another shirt? "

Barney scoffs. "Wear another shirt? Do you have any idea how that sounds?"

"Apart from half asleep? No. Wear a white shirt. White goes with everything. Problem solved. You're welcome. Where exactly was that tear again?"

Wooden hangers bang against each other, metal hooks slide along the rod. She swears she can hear his brow furrow. "Shoulder seam. Ted is in the living room, right now. He's wearing a white shirt. We're not twins, and I am not spending an entire evening with him thinking I'm copying his shirt choice. Now that I'm back in normal sized suits, I'm taking the navy Armani two button with the notched lapels out for a spin. Add in the paisley tie Tracy got me for my birthday, and I think you'll agree the melon stripe Robert Talbott is the only possible shirt to bring the whole ensemble together."

Robin heaves an aggrieved sigh. "Solid pink Ralph Lauren? Don't you have that striped shirt in blue? Or gray? Maybe a gray suit instead?"

He meets each suggestion with a weary sigh.

"Maybe Ted or Marshall borrowed it?"

The words are barely out of her mouth before he shoots that idea down. "Please. Ted can't wear melon. Marshall would never take anything that wasn't his without asking first, and leaving a security deposit. I don't want to have to file a report with the cleaning service, but they did have that new guy last week. This shirt was exactly where a thief might expect nobody would ever notice a missing shirt."

Nobody but Barney, at least. Robin shifts her position in the bed, and takes a whiff of the cotton ball soaked in Barney's cologne she'd stuffed in Barnpillow's pocket. "I'll help you look for it when I get back. If we don't find it, then maybe we do need to look into contacting the cleaning service. You haven't found my Canucks jersey yet, have you?"

There's a moment of complete and utter silence before he answers. "It's, um, probably around here somewhere. Blue stripe it is. Oh, and we need three chocolate T's, not two. Tracy is definitely going to be here for Christmas."

"Ted, Tom, Tracy. Three chocolate T's. Got it. Are you ready for the big weekend?"

The motorized tie rack whirs. "I was born ready. I am all cleared to pick up Sadie from daycare at noon on Friday. We hit the park until it's time to get Eli from school, and then it is forty-eight hours of awesome uncle and neice and nephew time. Activities are all planned. We're redoing Sadie's room, and Eli is growing like a weed, so, needless to say, new suit for him."

"Do James and Tom know about these activities?" Robin already knows the answer, but she has to ask anyway. Barnpillow does not come equipped with prerecorded soundbytes. She may have to see about that for next time. "I feel bad I can't be there. You're outnumbered."

"Yes, but I am taller and smarter, can order pizza, and have the authority to make medical decisions for both of them while James and Tom are in Vermont. Also, I told them you're spending the week with Santa, and will be delivering their naughty or nice report, personally, based on my assessment of their behavior while I'm watching them. They'll do whatever I say."

Robin bites her lower lip. "Threatening innocent children with booster shots and withholding presents? Man, it's a good thing we aren't having kids, because I am totally behind both of those strategies."

A door opens, then closes. "I know, right?" Barney's footsteps fall on carpet now, not the hard wood of the suit room. "Sadie's fingers have got to be made of Super Glue. She's getting wipes for Christmas."

"Barbie dream house. I already ordered it. The big one with the home office. Eli's getting army guys."

"Best aunt ever. Wait. American army guys or Canadian?"

Robin walks two fingers up and down Barnpillow's buttons. Not nearly as satisfying as the real thing, but here, now, his voice in her ear, it's enough to get her through. "Both. Army guys always have to come from two countries. How else is Eli supposed to learn how the forces of different nations can work together to bring relief in times of natural disaster?" She settles into the nest of pillows. This one time, she won't mind the Canadian dig that's sure to follow.

It doesn't come. Instead, there's a silence so long and so deep that she has to check and make sure the wifi hasn't gone out and the call is still there. At last, there's a somber, whispered, "Robin?"

She steels herself. She's heard this particular inflection few enough times to know that whatever comes next is important. Important enough that she turns on the light next to the bed and grabs pencil and pad from the nightstand drawer. _Flight to NY_ , she scrawls, followed by _forward conference notes to Dutch affiliate_. "Yeah?"

"Remember when I told you it was no big deal for you to go away for a week?"

She does. They'd been cuddled on the couch, a bowl of popcorn in front of them, a movie they never got to watch cued up on the giant screen when the call came. A week in Amsterdam, covering Sinterklaas celebrations, the first with the new king, interviews with educators, historians and entertainers over the controversy of the Zwarte Piet character. Beloved holiday tradition, or racist anachronism? Discuss. "Yeah."

"Totally lied. Not having you here sucks. I mean, it's great you get to interview a real king -of an actual country, not used cars or anything like that- but I wish you were here. Or I was there. I know exactly where your Canucks jersey is. I stole LIly's Marshpillow idea; your pillow has been wearing that jersey since I got back from the airport. Lame, huh?"

Robin picks at the sleeves she'd tucked inside Barnpillow's shirt. Maybe next time, she'll stuff them, maybe Velcro the cuffs so it's almost like he's holding her. She stops herself there; girl has to draw the line somewhere. "You get food on that jersey, and I will kill you."

A knock sounds on Barney's end of the call. Ted's voice. Robin can't make out the words.  
"Give me a minute. It's Robin." A pause. "Ted says hi." Another pause. "So does Tracy. I have to go. Maitre'd' is hardcore about reservations."

She nods, even though she knows he can't see her. "Come with me next time?" The words fly out of her mouth without conscious thought. "Um, if you want."

"I want. I have vacation time. Yeah. Let's do it. Wherever that may be. Love you."

"Love you, " she answers. The screen fades to black. She shuts off the light and lays her head on Barnpillow. She's out before she can even think about where the next assignment might be. It doesn't matter. They'll be there together.


	7. Years

Robin Scherbatsky-Stinson has been married for two years, eleven months, six days and forty-two minutes. The clock may stop there, and the knowledge of it shakes her so much she can barely hold herself up any longer.

"Balcony. Now. Take the laptop with you." She jabs one finger in the direction of the sliding glass doors of their hotel room. It's warm enough in Argentina that Barney isn't going to freeze, and cool enough, at night, that he won't burn or overheat. She doesn't want to hear about wifi anymore, doesn't want to hear about boner jokes, doesn't want to see the computer that might be taking him away from her.

Barney's jaw tenses as though he wants to say something. A single shake of his head silences whatever that might have been. He snatches the laptop off the bed and stalks to the balcony. The sliding doors open, then close.

Robin drops, hard, on the edge of the bed, her face in her hands, the d-word on the tip of her tongue. Neither one of them wants to be the first to say it, but what other choice is there? He's miserable. She's miserable. They don't talk. They argue. About everything. Stupid stuff. She wants to suck it up, take one for the team, but, days like this, she isn't sure there even is a team anymore.

" _It's not a business, it's a blog_." She wants to take the words back, but she can't. Can't un-see the look in his eyes, the shock, as though she'd slapped him. She might as well have, from the way he reacted. It's not that she doesn't believe in him. It's never been that. She does. She doesn't have a right to be angry at him for wanting to work on his blog, when she's the one who told him he should leave GNB. Take the leap. She remembers the look on his face then, too, bright and blinding as the sun. Remembers his shoulder muscles, tense beneath her fingers, the ice that clinked in the rocks glass in his hand as the dam broke and the misery poured out.

What else was she supposed to do when her husband told her he hated his job? That all the challenge from gathering intel for the feds was gone and working for a bank was so boring that he couldn't make himself do it anymore. He never set out to have a career in finance. First, he wanted to get back at Greg, and then he wanted to be part of something bigger. Now it was all over and there wasn't anything bigger. Now GNB was just a bank. He wasn't a banker.

" _So quit_." She doesn't want to take those words back. The right thing to do was easier to know, then, in their own living room, the light from the giant screen flickering across his face. They didn't need the money. She was traveling more. He could come with her. With those words, back when she knew the right ones, or thought she did, all the burden fell away from him, replaced by relief. Excitement. He could do whatever he wanted, even if that meant nothing. It wasn't nothing.

He'd lasted a full fifteen minutes before hauling out the white board and filling it with words and circles and arrows, a tangle of blue and black and red and green, listing all the things he loved. She was first, of course, and he made sure she knew it, followed by suits, scotch, New York, laser tag, magic, being awesome. The blog. He'd let the blog go, but maybe it was time to give it another try. They could treat it like a job. It made sense. He could be a brand, but it would require work. It might be easier if he were younger, if he'd gone to design school or studied fashion instead of liberal arts. If he had a degree in journalism. If he'd written something other than the Bro Code and the Playbook and that Brainbows zine from his hippie days. If, if, if, if if. There were too many ifs. She doesn't care about ifs. She never did. She wants to see him happy again, even if that means he isn't with her.

He's not with her when he stays in New York, and he sure as hell isn't with her when he tags along on assignments in body only, his mind on the content he could be creating.

She glances at the glass doors that separate them. No cartoon puppies on hotel stationery this time, and the lack of them claws at her gut. She wants Barnpillow. Needs it now, because Barney himself feels half a world away. She grabs his pillow from the bed and buries her face in it, inhales the scent of him. It doesn't calm her the way it always has. She blames the new cologne. She doesn't like it. Isn't that one of the signs of an affair? New cologne? The thought of Barney with somebody else, somebody after her, takes what little balance she had left. Her fingers dig into the pillow.

Maybe this is the first step in letting go. Maybe this is where the clock stops, where she has to divide her life into before and after Barney. This is new, this tearing of her heart that hasn't even started yet. Even the possibility of it hurts. She's thirteen again, the word, _divorce_ , echoing in her father's voice, ripping the floor out from under her. Katie had been too young to understad what was going on, but Robin knew exactly what that word meant, for everybody involved.

She's never been so glad that they don't have kids to scar forever with that one word, and she's never wished so much that there could be one piece of him she could keep forever, that nobody could ever take from her. Even a boy who looked like him, who would look more like him every day. The sound that comes from her throat can't be human. She tries to muffle it in the pillow, until the force of it vibrates through the tips of her clenched and cramping fingers, shakes every molecule of her blood.

"Robin?" Her name, in his voice. He sits on the bed next to her, close enough to almost touch her. His arm hovers in the air above her shoulder, as though he's not sure if he's allowed physical contact anymore. His other arm cradles the damned laptop.

"I'm fine." But she isn't. There's no disgusing that. The amount of mascara on the white of the pillowcase is proof enough. "You're supposed to be on the balcony."

Barney's mouth presses into a line, but the corners still twitch. "I can go back out there. I should go back out there." His expression is gaurded now, creases on his forehead wavering. "This is going to sound incredibly selfish, but you are literally the only person I know in the entire country, and you're the first person I want to know this. Whatever else happens," he adds, "you have to be first."

She swipes the back of her hand across her eyes. "First at what?"

"Look." He angles the screen toward her. "It's a screenshot. The reception sucks in here, but it's perfect out there, go figure. Look."

The logo for _Gent_ magazine is the only thing her brain can register. That, and Barney's name. The name of his blog. Numbers. She can't make sense of the numbers. His subscription is paid for the next five years, his birthday present from James. "What is this?" Her voice comes out as a squeak. Her throat is dry. "I can't," this whole thing doesn't make any sense. "Something in my eye." There. He can't argue with that.

"They want me." His voice is breathless with wonder, blue eyes alight, the same way they had been when she told him to quit GNB. " _Gent_ wants to buy the blog. They want me on staff. They want me."

She manages her best brave face. He'll want to go back now, start his new job, new life. She tries to tell herself that almost three years is a pretty decent ride when it comes to being married to Barney Stinson -he'll probably drop the Scherbatsky- but even she doesn't buy that. "I want you."

He blinks. She's taken the wonder from him with those words, turned the childlike smile to a concerned frown. Selfish. She's selfish.

"I'm happy for you. I know it doesn't look it." She passes her wrist across her eyes again. A long streak of black comes off on her skin. "I want you, but I don't want this. I don't want the way we've been."

He closes the laptop and sets it on the floor. All color drains from his face. "So you do want a divorce."

"No." The single word leaps straight from her heart. "I don't want this. I don't want our marriage to end in some hotel room because you have to go home and," she gestured to the laptop, "do that, and I have to go on another assignment and we never see each other. When we do, we're," she shrugs, because there aren't any words left. They've said them all already. "This."

"I can say no." The offer hangs in the air between them. He will, if she asks him. He drops his gaze, then steals a glance, waits for her answer.

She shakes her head. "It makes you happy. Go be happy."

His arms close around her now. He guides her head to his shoulder, in a way he hasn't done for months. His movements are halting, uncertain, as though he doesn't remember exactly how this goes. Maybe he doesn't. She wouldn't blame him. It's been a while. "I'm only happy if you're happy. You're going to have to tell me what you want, Scherbatsky."

She hasn't heard that name, said that way, for longer than she'd care to admit. "I want you to be happy. I want you to be you. Be awesome. Be in New York. This job is killing us. I don't want it killing you."

"So quit." She feels his words more than she hears them, her head fit into the place where neck meets shoulder. "We don't need the money. You don't have to be miserable. Take a break. Do something else. Go back to anchoring. You loved anchoring. I'm not going to pretend i understand why you left a job you love for a job you hate. Do whatever you want, even if it's nothing for a while."

For a moment, she's back in their living room, in front of the giant screen. He's on his third scotch, and she's barely touched her first. The roles are reversed now, but it's a turning point all the same. _So quit_. Easy to say, harder to hear. "No fair using my own words against me."

He takes both of her hands in both of his. "A very wise woman gave me some excellent advice once. I'm paying it forward. If what we're doing isn't working, we should try something else." He lays a finger across her lips. "And I do not mean divorce."

"What," she hiccups on a gasping breath. "What do you mean? What else is there?"

He's quiet then, for far too long. Long enough for the sinking feeling to set in, that she's convinced him there isn't any other way. She doesn't want to hear it, not from him. That would make it real, something neither of them could ever take back. "I don't know," he says at last. "All i know is that I love you more than I've ever loved anybody or anything, and I'm not giving up on us without one hell of a fight."

"I think," she says as soon as she can find the breath, "we already had one." She nods toward the balcony.

"Do I need to go back out there?"

She shakes her head. "No."

"Good." He pulls her back onto the bed with him, his body curled around hers.


	8. Decades

Robin Scherbatsky-Stinson has been married for ten years, exactly. That should be miracle enough. It strikes her as greedy to ask for more than that, but she's asking. She balances the cardboard drink holder in one hand. Tall cardboard cups, sweating from the late May heat, wobble, and her breath catches. Her mind whirls. Marshall is still on call; she can text him for replacements if she has to. She doesn't have to. Instinct and muscle memory right the balance. Tonight, she's not going to worry. Tonight, she's going to focus on Barney. On the two of them. She doesn't want to count how many times she's performed this same ritual, this pause in the doorway, to assess the situation.

He's alone. That's good. On his back, not his side, eyes closed, an open paperback splayed across his chest. She pins her sights on the foil lettering along the spine. She can't read it from here, but it's a good baseline. Rise. Fall. Rise. Fall.

Okay. Good. She lifts the wheeled suitcase over the threshold as quietly as she can. Celebrating can wait. She's not going to wake him, not when he's finally getting some decent sleep. She maneuvers the suitcase into its customary place near the bathroom door and sets the drinks on the wheeled table next to the bed before she hangs his garment bag in the closet. He'll complain she didn't wake him in time to get dressed, complain about spending his anniversary in pajamas instead of the suit he'd picked out months before. According to Barney, there were only two acceptable states of dress in which to spend one's anniversary; suited up and buck naked.

She shuts the closet door without a sound and nudges the visitor chair to the side of the bed. Part of her still has that moment of surprise when she sees him like this. He's passed 'thin' a while back, though they've been assured that's temporary. 'Gaunt' is a better word, his own word, and so all right to use. His color is as good as color can be beneath flourescent lighting. She settles into the chair and leans in to adjust the light gray knit beanie that sits askew on his head.

Blue eyes fly open beneath hairless brows. "Hah, got you. I'm totally awake." He flashes a wide smile of pure mischief and presses the button to raise the head of the bed.

"You're an idiot." Her arm slips around his neck as she leans in for their first kiss of the night. "How are you?"

"Aweome, now that you're here. Happy Anniversary."

She tugs the beanie back into place. "Happy anniversary. Number ten. We made it."

"Yeah, we did." He holds up his hand for a high five.

She presses her palm against his.

His hand drops. "Not quite the way we planned on spending it, huh?"

"I'm pretty sure Fiji is still going to be there next year. " She walks her fingers across the blanket and captures his hand with hers. Their fingers interlace. "So are you."

He squeezes her hand. "That is the rumor." His gaze cuts to the door. "Are you alone?"

"Not as long as you're here."

"You know what I mean. Is Emmy going to join us?"

Robin fingers his collar. A hospital gown, not t-shirt or pajama top. She doesn't have to ask what happened to what he'd been wearing. "I thought you didn't want Emmy to see you like this."

"I changed my mind. This is a special night. I don't want her spending it all by herself. She should be with us." He gives her the big blue puppy dog eyes. "I miss seeing her when I wake up," he adds, his voice plaintive.

She can't play him any longer. "Tell her yourself."

"She's here?"

"She's here. Where do you want her?"

There's an electronic whir as he adjusts the head of the bed to an upright position. "Top of the dresser, like at home."

"You got it." She puts an extra sway in the two steps it takes her to reach the suitcase. Her heels click on the linoleum. She lays the suitcase flat on the floor and opens it there -time enough to put things away properly later- enough to take out the padded box. The lid sticks, so she has to wriggle it free. She sets the lid aside and lifts out the statuette. _My Husband, His Cancer and Me, A Love Story_. She brushes a finger over the engraved lettering. _Outstanding Documentary or Nonfiction Special_. Not the way she wanted to win one of these, not by a long shot. She positions the statuette as close to the way it usually is at home as she can, among orange plastic bottles and a pared-down assortment of personal care items. "How's that?" She turns back to him in time to catch him shoving two fingers beneath his beanie. At least now she knows how it's always off center lately.

"Perfect. As long as you have the suitcase open, did you bring the gray hat? This one's itchy."

The hats are all gray, every last one of them, from dove to charcoal, but she doesn't need any more prompts to know which one he means; baby weight yarn, slate gray, one of Tracy's creations. It's his favorite, the first one he deigned to wear once he started needing hats, the only one he'll always take without a fuss. "Are you sure you even need one? It's a warm night."

He fixes her with a stare that borders on condescencion. "Robin."

This level of cranky, she knows not to fight. "Okay." She retireves the requested item and perches on the side of the bed. "I thought this was one of the good ones." It felt soft enough for her. Tracy had said, before, what kind of yarn she'd used -alpaca? angora?- but there were too many other, more important, things to remember.

"It was. Different detergent, maybe?"

Robin shrugs. "Maybe. I'll remind the service they need to use what we've provided. What are you reading?" She peers at the cover. _Remains of the Day_ , by Kazuo Ishiguro.

Barney moves the weighted leather bookmark into place and sets the book aside. "Ted brought it. I thought it was going to be lame, but it's pretty good. "

"What's it about?"

"A butler."

She scoffs. "Lame."

"No, it's good. It's like _Star Wars_. "

"A book about a butler is like _Star Wars_? What, does he use the Force to serve tea?"

Barney's brow crinkles. "No, not like that. It's set in England, in World War II, but it's really about samurai, like _Seven Samurai_ inspired _Star Wars_. The butler's boss is a Nazi sympathizer, but he's also seriously too dumb to pick up on that -the boss, not the bulter. The butler is smart, but he's so devoted to his job that it doesn't matter that his boss is funding Hitler. There's a movie of it. We could see that sometime."

Robin doubts there are any actual samurai in this movie. It sounds like a Ted movie, old-timey pepole with existential angst, but she smiles and nods. If Barney wants to watch the samurai butler movie, they're watching the samurai butler movie. "Sure." They've watched more movies in the past year than in the nine preceding it, at least half of them in rooms like this one, private, comfortable, the best attempts made to disguise the hospital-ness of them, but never quite making it there. "Let's get this off you." She plucks the offending beanie from his head, then, by instinct, sets her hand on his before he can scratch.

He makes a grunt of protest. "It itches."

"And you scratch too hard." She uncaps the small bottle of lotion on his bedside table and warms a dollop between her hands. "This will help." She smooths the first touch of lotion on his scalp, then stops. Rubs the dark patch on the crown of his head. Presses her lips against it. This is a good sign. A really good sign.

"What?"

She shifts her position so their gazes meet. "That's hair." Fuzz, really, little more than a shadow, but definitely there.

He brightens. "Serious?"

"Serious." She smooths the lotion on bare skin, then rubs the dark patch again. "Right there. Want to see?"

"Yeah."

She stands. He throws back the covers a second later and shoves stocking feet into his slippers. She retrieves her compact from her purse and follows him to the bathroom mirror.

"I can't see it." He brushes a hand over his own head, twists his body in a contortion that would have been comical under another circumstance. The hospital gown engulfs him, gray and red geometric shapes scattered over a field of white.

She steadies him with a hand on his shoulder and flips the compact open, angles it to give him the best perspective. "See? There."

His fingers still. He doesn't say anything, only takes the compact from her, turns, adjusts the angle of the mirror. One more experimental touch of the fuzz-shadow and he closes the compact, sets it on the edge of the sink. Relief softens his features. He plucks at the fabric of his gown. "Want to get the ties on this? I have to dress for an important dinner. Have to get pictures of me and my hot date for the blog."

She works at the knots, her brow knit in concentration. Whoever tied these things must have been a Rover scout, or possibly a sailor. "So is this a thing now? Every ten years, one of us has to get the other one out of some sort of gown in a really tiny room with bad lighting?"

He laughs at that, a real laugh, a Barney laugh. "Your turn next time. I'm thinking strapless."

The knot loosens beneath her touch. "You think I'm going to be able to pull off strapless ten years from now?"

"No, I am thinking I am going to be pulling something strapless off you. No wife of mine takes off her own dress on any anniversary that ends in a zero, if I have anything to say about it."

The ties separate. She moves on to the next one. The gown falls open. He's bony, this husband of hers. Always was lean, but this, this undeniable proof of what his own body had done to him -tried to do to him, because they were getting good results now- that frightens her like nothing else. Only ten years. She barely just got him. She wants ten more years with him. Twenty more. Thirty, forty, fifty more. More than that. She wants forever. Forever would be a good start. "I will remember that," she says, willing a lightness into her voice that she doesn't yet feel. "Tonight, you get to pick from vanilla soft serve blended with cranberry juice or with oran-"

He doesn't wait for her to finish. "Cranberry. You could have brought real food for yourself."

She peels the gown from him, wads it into a ball and tosses it in the hamper. "I like the orange one. It's like a creamsicle. Besides, I had a burger with Marshall on the way up here. Bring you one next time?"

He draws in a deep breath and faces his reflection, his expression pained. "I think you better."

"Hey." She turns him away from the mirror. "We talked about this."

His shoulders, too thin, too bony, sag. "I know. Good results, surgeon got everything, shunt coming out as soon as Dr. Manbun-"

"Manheim." She tries to sound stern, correcting him like she probably ought to, but fails. She always does. The name fits. Not that it goes any further than the two of them, but the nurse's station isn't that far away. They could hear it. It could stick. Other nicknames had, a legacy that would last long after the name Sherbatsky-Stinson was but a memory on this floor.

"-signs off on it, blah blah, doctor stuff, focus on today, blah, blah, whatever. This isn't what I wanted to give you. Not even close. We're spending our tenth anniversary in a hospital room." His voice echoes off the tiled walls.

She strokes one hand from shoulder to elbow and back again. "We do have a pretty good track record with hospital rooms."

"Yeah, we do."

The memories connect them, of other moments, other hospital rooms, all alive and with them once again. The first time they'd fumbled their way through words and kisses and nonverbal utterances, flitting from just friends to impulsive proposals to backing away and furious locking of lips in a matter of seconds. The way he'd looked at her after his bus accident, neck brace and traction and bruises, his eyes saying everything words didn't dare. Marvin's birth. A room like this one, when the diagnosis slammed down on them like a lead weight. All the others that followed it, the two of them fighting this enemy within, because nothing else mattered but this; her and him, together.

There will be others, she's sure of that. His, hers, their parents, siblings, neices, nephews, friends, friends' kids, even, but here, now, all that matters is the fact that they have each other, no matter what. They have soft serve and fruit juice, they have Emmy, and there is one kickass set of suitjamas inside the garment bag in the closet. The night is young.


	9. Happily Ever After

Robin Scherbatsky-Stinson has been married for twenty-five years and a handful of minutes. She and her husband, run, hand in hand, along the tiled corridor of the church where they were first married, where they, in front of family, friends, and two camera crews - one for her talk show, _Robin_ , one for his internet broadcast, _How To Live_ \- wrangle for space. One quarter of a century under their belts, and he can still whisk her off on an adventure with a single touch.

LIly's aggrieved cry of "Not again," trails after them. They don't listen. Down the hall, around the corner, up the stairs. They get the door right on the first try this time, and she wonders, for one fleeting second, if he hasn't arranged for that ahead of time.

The room is an office now. There's a fresh coat of eggshell paint, an antique wooden desk and vintage office chair that spins when Barney drops into it. He kicks off his shoes and props both feet on the papers that cover the desk's surface. He doesn't look sixty-two. She doesn't feel fifty-eight. "How much time do you think we have?"

Her heart skips. A shot of anxiety courses through her, prickles the back of her neck. She knows it's not like that. She knows that's not what he means. He's been cancer-free for thirteen years. They talk. They fight; they still do that, louder and harder than anyone else in their gang, but the makeup sex is worth it. She tests the doorknob and slides the deadbolt into place. "Enough."

He clasps his hands behind his head and shoots a lascivious leer. The chair bounces. "The springs in this chair are incredible."

"It's also in direct line of sight of _The Last Supper_."

Barney pushes back from the desk. "One, it's a copy, and two, we're married. In this very church. If it doesn't remember the actual wedding, we just renewed our vows literally less than five minutes ago."

Robin knits her fingers together and casts a nervous glance at the painting. "Couch looks good." She drops onto the crushed velour of the tan cushions and pats the seat beside her. This room, she decides, has definitely upgraded. So have they.

He settles next to her, the lines about eyes and mouth deeper now, permanently etched, blue eyes still bright. She loves him best like this, the complete comfort and ease that comes when they are alone together. One arm circles her neck, hand cupping the back of her head, careful not to dislodge the small army of bobby pins holding her updo in place. The backs of his fingers trace the curve of her cheek. "Twenty-five years."

'Yeah. Twenty-five good ones." She brushes his hair, blonder since his last round of chemo, almost as pale again as his baby pictures, back from his forehead. Almost white now, with all the sun they got in Fiji. Maybe he'll look like this, still, she thinks, when he's old. He isn't, now. They aren't. She doesn't know when _old_ will set in. Maybe never. "Might be too soon to call, but I think we're going to make it."

He pulls her onto his lap. "We are totally going to make it, and by that, I mean-"

"I know what you mean. I'm sitting on your lap." She punctuates the obvious with her mouth on his, deep, tender, passionate. She loves him. Loves him. Crazy, cocky, delusional, insane, brilliant, vain, impulsive, unpredictable Barney, who knows everything about her and loves her anyway. "You really think a church office is the right place for this sort of thing?"

"We are as married as it is possible to get -seriously, I saw Marshall slip Lily cash during our vow renewal- and we did it in here when it was a supply closet. Right over," his brow creases in concentration. He points one finger and sweeps it around the room, finally settling on a framed oil painting. "There."

The painting he indicates is an exceptionally detailed depiction of the crucifixion. Heat floods her cheeks. "There are a lot of religious paintings in here."

"That's kind of how churches work." He bats her pearl drop earring with the tip of one finger. "Want to go somewhere else?"

She shakes her head. "We have our entire familiy and two camera crews looking for us. We're only safe as long as we stay put." They'll have to go back out sometime. The party can't start without them, not to mention the filming, but she needs this time apart, the two of them, and nobody else. Even only a few more minutes. She fingers his lapel. "This is a really nice couch."

"Almost makes up for you wearing the same dress. Eighteen buttons." He groans, but the first button slips through its loop.

The doorknob jiggles. "Aunt Robin? Uncle Barney?"

Crap. Marvin. She holds her breath, tightens her grip on Barney's lapel to urge him to do the same. The room is entirely still.

"Ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba."

Barney's head whips toward the door.

Robin grasps his tie to keep him from getting up. "Dirty trick, bringing Stinson." She makes no attempt to keep her voice down.

"Ba-ba-ba-ba."

"He's trying to say Barney." Barney shoots her a pleading look, then glances down at the locket that nestles in her cleavage. An agony of indecision flickers across his face.

"He's not trying to-"

Stinson Mosby Ericksen, five months old, and fist grandchild of the gang, cuts her off. "Ba-ba-ba."

"It was Mom's idea to bring him," Marvin says from the other side of the door, his tone half hopeful, half apologetic.

"Hey, Marv?" Barney lays a finger across Robin's lips. "Make another lap of the building before you find us?"

There's a moment of heavy silence before Marvin replies. "Mom gave me strict orders to bring you guys back the second I found you."

"It's for the bride."

No response, only the shifting of Marvin's feet on the floor.

"Ba."

"That's right, Stinson, it's for the bride. You and Daddy take a nice long walk, and then he can find us."

Robin rolls Barney's tie around her hand and pulls his head down for another kiss. Marvin's footsteps fade into the distance. Robin fumbles for the single button on Barney's suit jacket. "Hm, now, remind me again, where were we?"

Button number seventeen slips free of its loop. "Just getting started."


End file.
